


John

by TheWiseMansFear



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 12:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8209018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: John is struggling with increasingly volatile nightmares. Sherlock sets out to uncover the cause and finds logic may not help him with this particular case.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. 
> 
> This is based on the characters of the BBC Sherlock. This is after The Fall because I don't want it looming anywhere even if it's fictional. So, that being said- Mary simple does not exist here. Why? Because I don't want to kill her- or to have had her die- because John has dealt with enough and I am neither Doyle nor Moffat. So, please join me now on a lovely gay romp on the deck of this beautiful ship!

    It wasn't a rare thing for John to have nightmares. In fact it was such a common occurrence, that when, at precisely three thirty-seven a.m., the doctor let out a shout Sherlock did not even flinch. He simply went on cataloging the canine hairs he'd collected that afternoon. It was only when feet hit the floor and the sound of shattered glass followed that he paused. "John?" He called tentatively, still looking through his microscope at a particularly interesting follicle. It was also not rare for his flatmate to knock things from his nightstand in an imaginary struggle.  
     A minute passed and he waited for John to come padding down the staircase in search of tea. But when another minute went by and the kettle was still cold he allowed concern to disrupt his focus. There was a shuffling and then a dull thud- a back against a wall if he were any judge.  
     Again he called up, "John?"  
     Nothing.  
     With a sigh he pulled his robe together and shuffled from the kitchen to the base of the stairs. "John?" He started the ascent to his friend's room without realizing it. "I'm coming up, I do hope your decent." Although in truth he wouldn't have minded a peek beneath that god awful- albeit cuddly- jumper. He doesn't wear it to bed, he corrected himself as he went along. John had a fondness for button up sleep shirts with matching bottoms. He knew that.  
      Topping the stairs he opened the door without pretense. After all, he'd called up multiple times. The room was dark. The bed clothes were tangled and half strewn across the room and the lamp that Mrs. Hudson had gotten John for his birthday was smashed across the floor. A shame really. John had liked the thing rather well. "John?"  
      In the far right corner, half-standing half-leaning against the wall, he found the man he sought. It became clear then what had happened. He'd only met flashback John once before and it had resulted in a black eye and a bloodied lip and endless guilt on the doctor's part. If John's hand was not clutched tightly around a bit of broken glass and bleeding profusely he'd have quietly turned and gone back down stairs. Unfortunately that was not the case.  
      "John. It's not real." He ventured gently, staying very still. "You're in your room. What you're seeing and feeling isn't real. You're alright. You're safe at home at 221B Baker's Street. Look," he slowly gestured to the shelf on the wall nearby. "There's your silly Star Wars figures and that picture of you and Harry in primary school."  
       John looked at the shelf, his body trembling as he drew in jagged breaths.  
       "Are you back now John?"  
       "Bloody buggering fuck." Was the shaky response.  
       "Your hand, John." He stated, still not moving from his spot in the doorway. "Let's get it cleaned up."  
       "Christ."  
       "Come down stairs."  
       John looked around, his breathing beginning to calm. He seemed to notice his injury for the first time. "I'm sorry." He breathed, looking up with such a doleful expression that Sherlock found himself searching his mind for something comforting to say.  
       The best he could come up with was tea. "I'll put the kettle on." 

Five minutes later John was in the bathroom spewing filthy curses and Sherlock was curled up in his chair, listening. A good friend would be offering aid, but he was not a good friend. Because while John was probably busy deciding whether or not he needed stitches, Sherlock was wondering if a kiss would make it all better. Which was nonsense! Infuriating and inconvenient nonsense.  
     Even if he desired John, acting on it would only lead to losing him. That was not something he wanted to do. So, no warm embraces, no comforting words, and certainly no kisses. He had to play it safe. He'd made tea and would be present should John care to talk. That was it.  
"Sherlock?" John called from down the hall. He sounded reluctant.  
"Yes?"  
"Could you- help me?"  
Bullocks. "I'm not the doctor John." He sighed, unfolding himself from his seat and crossing the flat in long, agitated strides. "What do you-"  
"Sorry. I'm just..." The doctor trailed off.  
Sherlock grappled for his pretense. Blood was in the sink. Blood was on the tile. Blood was welling around the ten- no- thirteen stitches in John's palm. The man was quaking and even though he seemed coherent his eyes were distant. "Do you need a blanket John?" He joked humorlessly, grabbing the hand-towel from the ring and pressing it to his friend's wound. "You should have told me you were stitching it yourself." He scolded, trying to both forget and remember that he was currently holding John's hand.  
"Just- can you just wrap it for me?" John grumbled.  
"Sit." He instructed, kicking the toilet cover down with his foot. John jumped at the sound and then averted his eyes, embarrassed. "Sit." The repeated command was to bring John's focus back to him.  
The doctor obeyed, putting his face in his good hand and letting out a heavy sigh. "Did I wake you?"  
"No."  
"What were you doing up?"  
Sherlock recognized the conversation for what is was. A distraction. He humored it. "Cataloging."  
"The dogs again?"  
"Yes." He didn't try to be gentle as he pressed gauze into John's palm, nor when he was wrapping the bandages round it. He hoped the discomfort would serve as an anchor, something to keep John in the present where there were comfortable chairs and carpet instead of sand and bullets. "There."  
John glanced at his hand and then rested his arm on the edge of the sink. "I'll just sit here a moment."  
That was his cue to leave but- "I'll fetch you a change of clothes."  
          A lapse of sanity later he returned with a clean t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants. John gave him a questioning look. "Those are your clothes."  
         "Obvious."  
         John gave him a tired look.  
         "You can roll the waist." He suggested, "It's only to sleep in."  
          "Sherlock."  
          "Fine. I'll go find something of yours."  
           John snagged the corner of his robe as he turned to go. His heart leapt. Tea Sherlock. His mind shouted in reprimand. Just tea and that's it.  
          "What is it John?"  
          "Sorry." The other man released him. "They'll do. Thank you. You can go back to your catalogue."  
          Right. Turning, he left John sitting there and went to stare down at the work he'd been doing. It only took him a few seconds to decide he was done with it. His concentration was already latching onto another problem, another mystery. Dogs be damned. He wanted John.  
          Retreating to his chair, he waited.  
          When the doctor appeared at last Sherlock noticed first how good he looked in his clothes and second that he was limping. The odd mixture of satisfaction and concern in his chest baffled him and he set it aside to analyze later. "Your leg John."  
          "What happened to your cataloging?" John inquired, fending off the comment with a look.  
          "It became boring."  
          Sitting down heavily in his chair, John reached for his tea a slight tremor still present in his hands. "Stop deducing me." He muttered as he took a slow sip.  
          "I wasn't."  
           His friend did not look convinced. "What's all this then?"  
          "Clarify."  
          "You made me tea. You dropped your work. You lent me clothes and you've been staring at me since I came in. I can only assume I'm being experimented on."  
          The words would have hurt if John had known how much he loved him. However, since he was ignorant of it the suspicion was expected and no offense was taken. After all, he was known to drug drinks. "You were upset. I made tea. It's what any decent Brit would do."  
         John laughed at that. It was small and almost bitter, but Sherlock enjoyed the sight of it nonetheless. "Thank you then." The doctor sighed, falling silent as he leaned back into the cushion.  
Even though there was hardly a leg's length between them Sherlock knew John was far away again. "Do you want to talk about it?" He asked for the simple sake of waking the other man from his thoughts.  
"Nothing to say." John answered. "I'm sure you've already deduced where and what I was seeing by my actions."  
True. "I'm still capable of listening to you tell me."  
"It's fine." John dismissed.  
         Sherlock didn't press. Instead he grabbed his violin and began to play a piece he knew John favored. It was the closest thing he had to touching. His music could reach out in his stead, wrap itself around John's mind, soothe him in a way he wasn't able.  
         John's eyes closed, a nonverbal that's good, Sherlock.  
        Sherlock smiled and played with increased fervor even long after John had nodded off.


	2. Chapter 2

     John woke to Mrs. Hudson calling his name. It took a few fuzzy moments to realize he was in his chair. The blanket that usually collected dust on the back of the sofa was thrown across him and his laptop had been set on the arm along with the clicker for the telly. What in the hell was happening?  
"John dear." Mrs, Hudson called again, coming in without knocking. "I brought you a bit of toast and some tea."  
"What time is it?" He grumbled, sitting up and looking at her over the back of his chair.  
"Near eleven dear." She answered, setting the tray she carried on the table beside him. "Sherlock asked me to check in on you."  
Okay. He'd been drugged. That was the only explanation. Sherlock took off before he woke up and sent someone to see if he was still alive. Good bloody God. "Did he say where he was off to?"  
"The dog park." She said, hovering for a moment before beginning to buzz about absently tidying despite her being 'not their housekeeper'.  
"That's all he said?"  
"Besides asking me to look in on you." She replied, taking his old cup to the sink and returning. "He's worried."  
He snorted. "Sherlock Holmes does not worry. Especially about me."  
The woman looked as though he'd just stomped one of her homemade tarts. "Pish posh!"  
"In any case there's nothing to worry about." He sighed, "Thank you for breakfast. I'll bring the tray down later."  
"John Watson are you shooing me?"  
"Well, if you clean much else he will have a tantrum." He stated, tossing in a good natured smile.  
She returned the grin and patted his arm lovingly. "Be sure to eat that dear. You look a bit pale."  
. "I'm fine." He assured her again, sinking back into the chair as she took her leave.  
Just what in the hell was going on?  
Sherlock was acting strangely. Then again, that was his friend's MO. Who could know for certain? He surely didn't have any answers. In fact, he was already having enough trouble understanding himself to even begin to worry about the detective. It was enough that he was constantly on his mind.  
           He felt like a lovesick teenager. It was pathetic and odd. There was nothing he could do to persuade his mind or body that Sherlock wasn't his type. He'd proclaim 'not gay' all the damn day long but it didn't change a thing. He had a gay crush on his flatmate. The shame of it was destroying him. He wasn't happy any more. Not like this. Not when everything he felt was wrong. Not when Sherlock did not reciprocate.  
          The text alert on his phone sounded and saved him from his brooding- briefly. 'Butterfield Green. Come at once. -SH'  
As much as he wanted to say no, as much as he wanted to drag himself upstairs and sleep for the rest of the day, he found himself responding. 'Ok.'  
'Have you eaten? -SH'  
Another oddity. Usually Sherlock was either absorbed in a case or absorbed in himself. He could only assume that he was being observed. 'Yes.' He answered, eyeing the toast with disdain. Even though it was smeared with his favorite jam he had no appetite. Another symptom of his depression.  
'Quickly. -SH'  
         With a sigh he pushed himself up from his seat and swallowed a curse as his bad leg nearly crumbled beneath him. His heart fell into his stomach and he limped to the stairs, realizing for the first time that he was still dressed in Sherlock's clothes.  
        'John? -SH'  
       He looked at his phone as if he could set it ablaze that way and then his annoyance turned to grim acceptance. Slowly, he made his way to his bedroom to dress. 'Coming.'

      Sherlock sat on the bench, watching everyone with their dogs. Now and then he'd find a breed he hadn't gotten a sample from and approach the owner, donning his charm, throwing out his smile and flaunting his cheekbones. The mask made people quite compliant, men and women alike. The dogs on the other hand knew him for what he was. They weren't fooled by his facade. They saw the truth, felt his discontent, his nerves. Some snapped at him for it and others licked his face in attempts to comfort. Either way he came away with what he'd gone for- but not quite what he wanted.  
        Dogs were bittersweet to him. Much for the same reason John was. He'd loved Redbeard so much it had breeched all his doubt about emotion. That creature had taken all of Mycroft's well beat-in lessons and set them ablaze with the warm and total acceptance he'd given him. Redbeard never condemned him for his strange mind, never called him a freak or a monster. John was no different. And that was truly frightening.  
       He'd watched his beloved dog- his only friend, grow slow and tired, saw as his eyes begin to dull. He understood why his parents had sent him to be euthanized, but good bloody God had it hurt. Logic couldn't save him from the grief and Mycroft had mercilessly dug the tip of his stupid umbrella into the wound relentlessly 'just so he never forgot'. As if he would have. Now John was fading and not in the same way he'd done after his feigned suicide. This was different.  
        After the incident with Moriarty and his three year- hiatus, he'd found John had efficiently gone through all the stages of grief, had recovered enough to quietly proceed with his life. And after his return things had been smooth and wonderful as if nothing had ever changed. But perhaps he'd been too blinded by his own joy, by the light of having John back by his side to notice the cause of whatever malcontent his flatmate was feeling now. It was hard to admit to himself that he'd missed something, especially something pertaining to John, but it was the only explanation. He'd been too busy playing make believe to see that the one thing he loved most was hurting. Just like Redbeard. He could only hope that this time it was not too late.  
        "Are you back now?" John's voice questioned on a sigh. "Mind Palace, was it?"  
        Hiding his startlement he turned to find John sitting beside him. "Hello, John. How long have you been there?"  
         "A few minutes." The doctor replied, "Why did you call me all the way out here? A case?"  
         "You've brought your cane."  
         John sneered. "Obvious."  
         "It just sounds pretentious when you say it, John." He sniffed, turning up his coat collar to his shield his frown. Even John's humor was dry and lifeless.  
         "Yes, well, why am I here, Sherlock?"  
         "You've not been out of the flat save to go to the surgery and back for two weeks."  
          "So you've brought me out to walk me a little have you?" John grumbled.  
          "I had hoped to run you." He stated, "But as you've let your head disable you again I'm afraid it's out of the question." No. Wrong. Bad. He knew it but he didn't take it back. He almost missed the times when he didn't spend time to care whether his words were hurtful. Worse still, John didn't spit sass at him. Instead he simply sat quietly, staring off into nowhere with those damned distant eyes.  
       "John."  
       "I'm going back if you don't need me."  
       "Don't be preposterous. Of course I need you John." Subtle.  
        "For what exactly?"  
        Everything. "I look rather unapproachable sitting here alone."  
        "Not buying it."  
        "Fine, John." He stated, throwing his leg over the other and straightening his scarf. "I simply wanted your company."  
        "You're experimenting on me."  
        "Wrong."  
        "If you tell me now I'll omit the strangling."  
        "Oh, never that John. I do think I'd like a bit of strangling." He snickered, not expecting the flush of crimson that bloomed across his friend's too pale cheeks.  
         "Jokes don't suit you."  
         "You're blushing John."  
         "I'm not feeling well." The man breathed, grabbing up his cane and rising. "Something I ate."  
          "We both know you haven't eaten since the day before yesterday and that was only a handful of biscuits."  
          "Mrs. Hudson brought up-"  
          "Toast that you left in the bin before coming here."  
          "Sherlock-"  
          "I do not understand feelings John, that does not mean I do not have the bloody things. I am frustrated that I can not deduce the cause of all this moping. So, it is best you just tell me before I have to go to greater lengths to ascertain the answer." And he would.  
          "I don't have to explain to you how post traumatic stress works Sherlock! Bugger off!" John looked wild a moment, an animal in a snare, and for a precious second Sherlock saw that fire he'd so missed appear in his eyes. But it was quickly lost. John slumped his shoulders and turned his face. "I'm tired. I'm leaving."   
           Sherlock would have liked to scream as he watched John limp away, but that wouldn't have done more than scare the dogs. Instead he removed his phone from his jacket pocket and sent a text to his 'greater lengths', and also may have taken a photo of John's arse while he was at it.


	3. Chapter 3

     As much as he hated- or pretended to hate- his older brother, who had been truly rubbish when they'd been children, he found himself needing him far more than he'd like to say. Unfortunately Mycroft knew he needed him so denying it was futile. Damn John. Damn John and his leg and his jumpers. This was nearly too much to bear, watching Mycroft looking smug while he ate his pastry like the elegant prat he was.    
      Dabbing his mouth with his napkin his brother finally set aside his fork and pulled out a thick folder from his bag. "Here you are brother mine. Do see that you don't let John find it. He'd be rather put off if he knew."   
      Sherlock wasn't surprised. Having to say nothing to Mycroft about why he'd asked to meet was not unusual and he was glad he hadn't had to explain. However, he did raise his brows in question when he found the file held notes from John's therapy sessions. "This is quite illegal Mycroft."  
      "Illegal for who?"   
      "Is there anything else?"   
      "Of course." Mycroft answered, producing another folder, thinner this time, and white. "Hospital records."   
      "Hospital?"  
      "While you were on vacation."   
      His heart sank. John had never made mention of being sick while he'd been 'dead'. He looked down at the new information in his hands and for the first time in his life he didn't want it. He didn't want to know. "You've read these?"   
      Mycroft sat back in his chair. "No. I hardly need to. I can tell you what's wrong with John by looking at him. You've been blinded by your feelings brother. If it were any other person on the street you'd have deduced it immediately."   
      "It's an illness?"   
      "Oh, don't guess Sherlock. It's pathetic. It's obviously an illness. You've known from the start that John's mind was damaged. He's not like us. He's disgustingly average."   
      Disgustingly average. That awoke his temper and of course Mycroft saw it. The older man sipped his tea and watched him over the brim of the cup with disdain.   
      "Do you want me to tell you, Sherlock?" He inquired on a sigh. "It's painfully obvious."  
      "I know that he's unhappy. What I can not see is why? He was fine just a few weeks ago."   
       Mycroft reached out and tapped a long finger on the folders. "Was he?"  
       He'd seemed it. "I refuse to believe John could hide anything from me."   
       "What is that you always tell him? You see but do not observe? How many times did Redbeard limp along beside you while you were happily playing pretend?"  
       "Stop it Mycroft. You were no different when it came to-"  
       "Sherlock." Mycroft had abandoned his tea. His eyes were like ice as they looked into him. "It would be wise to speak no further."   
        "Lovely chatting with you, brother." Sherlock stated, rising and tossing a tip on the table. "Do continue eating your feelings while I go and sort mine."  
As he walked out he heard Mycroft order more sweets. Bringing 'the other one' up was something he knew better than to do, but after yet again summoning Redbeard from the grave he felt Mycroft deserved it. Of course he felt guilty about it shortly afterward, as he always did when he knew he'd hurt his brother. Yet another thing Mycroft would find disappointing of he knew.

John was asleep on the sofa when he arrived home, a Doctor Who marathon playing low on the telly. He came to stand over his flatmate, watching the way he breathed, memorizing the angles of his face, the fall of his hair. What if one day he came home and this man was not here? Not anywhere? What if John were gone?   
The tea cup on the end table was full and long cold. The sleeve of biscuits beside it was open but with only one missing- two if he chose to be hopeful instead of practical. Squatting on his haunches he bent to better inspect the man's body. Despite having the answers in his hands, the folders, he wanted to try again to deduce on his own. Was there an illness to blame for this? One that did not pertain to his post traumatic stress? What if it was incurable? Degenerative? Painful? What if it was fatal?   
Stop. He had to stop. Once he'd cracked the damn door his emotions had all just gone sprinting out and about like children too long pent up due to bad weather. Reigning them in, he shoved them all back into their room in his mind palace and locked it as tightly as their prying fingers allowed. Now he could breathe calmly. Now he could focus.   
John was dressed as he always was. His hand was laying over his bad leg which signaled to him that it's still been hurting as he'd fallen asleep. The stubble on his face told him he hadn't bothered to shave that morning- which was unlike him. And, taking a long whiff, he decided he hadn't used his usual hair product either. That accounted for the tussled bed head. Actually, he rather liked it that way. Now his scent was more John and less-   
Pausing, he mentally shouted at his delinquent feelings in the same voice Mycroft had used on him when he was misbehaving. They quieted and he proceeded. As gently as he was capable he softly pinched the skin on John's wrist. The skin was slow to return to it's usual form, telling him that the man was at least moderately dehydrated. Why? How hard was it to drink something? Hell, even he managed to do it regularly. His eyes darted to the full tea cup and then back to John's pale face.   
When they'd first met he'd noticed John's eating habits had been poor. He'd been unhappy then too, but because he was bored and living with a bum leg and no purpose. That wasn't true again now. Was it? Why did normal people have to be so damn fragile? Their minds were so small that just one thing could break them like this. It was baffling and endlessly irritating.   
He was about to rise and go to his room to ponder when he swore John breathed his name. Hurriedly he stuffed the folders beneath the sofa and watched as the other man's breathing picked up. John's nostrils flared and his brows furrowed. Resisting the urge to wake him before the nightmare grew violent he waited and observed. John's hand came up to touch his face and then fell down across his chest. Sherlock took his pulse as he continued to dream.   
"You could." The doctor murmured. His pulse raced faster. "No."   
It felt cruel now. His emotions were trying to escape again. "John." He touched the hand laying across the other man's heartbeat. "John?"  
"Don't." John gasped.   
"John, wake up." He said, more forcefully this time, his brilliant mind easily able to understand just what he'd been dreaming of. That conversation still haunted him as well, though he'd never say so.  
"Sh-Sherlock!"  
John's eyes opened and they were immediately on Sherlock. "Just a dream, John." Sherlock stated, a failed attempt to soothe. "How often do you have that one in particular?" As far as he knew all the rest had been of wartime.   
       "Why are you so close?" John growled, sitting up and shaking his hand free of the grip Sherlock still held it in. "What time is it?"  
      "Dinner time, John." He answered despite not knowing the time himself.   
      "I already ate."  
      "Honestly John, I don't know why you bother to lie to me." Sherlock sighed, turning away so that he didn't have to witness his friend's disarray. The more he looked at him the heavier his stomach got. "We can get takeaway."    
       "Fine." John sighed, standing up and taking a step forward.   
         His leg gave out and Sherlock turned to save him from hitting the floor. As soon as John fell into his chest the doctor pushed away with a force that sent them both staggering backwards. John hit his ass and Sherlock steadied himself against John's chair. "You'd rather fall then let me catch you?! Am I suddenly so repulsive?" Sherlock hissed, his anger busting the lock and blowing the room wide open. "What happened? You've freely reached into to my pockets! Carried me to bed! Comfortably sat beside me while I wore nothing but a sheet! You've held my bloody hand John!"   
        "That was before you jumped!" John bellowed, getting shakily to his feet.


	4. Chapter 4

      John heard the words before he knew he'd spoken them. "That was before you jumped!" His legs were shaking as he stood, and his chest felt tight. Sherlock stood there looking stricken.   
      "You know why I had to do that John." The detective whispered. "I thought you'd gotten over it."   
       Gotten over it? Over the loss, yes, but only because he'd come back. Over the trauma of watching someone he loved splatter against the pavement? Certainly not. But it wasn't that. It wasn't any of that. It was what he'd thought in the moment from the rooftop to the sidewalk. In that split second and every second after it.   
         "I need air." He muttered, turning to the door. "I can't breathe in this bloody place anymore."   
          "John please." Sherlock hissed, "You're being irrational. I didn't die. There's no need-"  
          "Yes you did!" No. Stop. He didn't want to argue, he wanted to flee. Still the words came out, angry and trembling. "You did die Sherlock! Maybe it wasn't the truth, but it was my reality. I lived it for three years. Three years thinking that-" That if he'd just told him he loved him, if he'd come clean, maybe he wouldn't have jumped. But Sherlock had been halfway to the ground by the time his heart had realized, and gushing blood by the time his mind had accepted. By then it'd been too late and he'd been left with a soul hollowing 'what if' that he may never have the courage to amend.  
         "You couldn't have stopped it John." Sherlock sighed, reading at least half of his hesitation correctly. "You know that nothing could have changed it. Stop this ridiculous- whatever it is you're doing to yourself and cheer up a bit. My god how hard can it be?"   
        The truth? It was hard. Hard because it could remove Sherlock from his life again, and hard because as the days passed it was a struggle just to stay alive himself. The weight was heavy. He wanted to unload it, but he was terrified. Terrified like he'd been in Afghanistan, because one false move and that was it. He would be back in the dark, that bleak place between life and death where there was no Sherlock. Just the slow, agonizing tedium of time.   
       "Let's just forget it." He whispered, his head spinning suddenly. "I- Christ..."  
       "Sit down John." Sherlock demanded, his oceanic eyes suddenly wide with concern. "You need to eat. You-"  
      "Don't take me to hospital." He gasped, his legs buckling. Damn it. Damn his broken head. Damn his useless body.   
       This time when the detective caught him he didn't have the strength or the will to fight him. Nothing mattered. He couldn't think straight enough to worry about it. All he wanted was to let go, to fade away. To be numb, to be nothing.

 

Sherlock helped John into his chair and then stood a moment, unsure. He didn't know what to do. Deduction told him it was likely low blood sugar. Sometimes it would happen to Mycroft as a child when he'd forget to eat. But his mother had always taken care of it. He'd been off being Bootstrap bloody Bill, so again, he was clueless. "John, I don't know what to do." He confessed.   
John's head lulled against the chair's cushioned back and he threw a shaky hand toward the kitchen. "Orange juice." He murmured. "Sorry."   
It took him thirty seconds to find a glass and three to find the juice. It had expired three days ago but he poured it anyway. No time now for a Tesco run. "Here-" he held the glass out and John reached out to take it but his whole arm was trembling. "For goodness' sake John. I'll do it." He huffed, attempted to help his flatmate drink.   
"Go sit down." John grumbled, taking the glass feebly. "Don't hover."  
"Why aren't you eating John?" He asked, "You hadn't been eating when we first met either. What about while I was away?"   
The doctor took a small sip of the juice and closed his eyes. "Leave be." He breathed. "You go without eating all the time."  
"Not to the point that I swoon like a girl, John." He snapped, walking to the window and then back again. "Are you unhappy with your work? Is it a woman, John? Family issues? What? I- I can't deduce it, so just tell me. I'll go mad if you don't."   
John took another swallow and took a deep breath. "For once we're on the same page." He snorted. "I don't know either."   
"Of course you're lying John."   
"I just don't have an appetite when I'm like this." John sighed. "I just want to sleep. It'll pass. It always does."   
"Your depression is and always has been linked to trauma John, I know that. Was it the fall? Honestly, have I done this to you? You seemed so well when I came home."  
"Oh, don't sound so wounded, Sherlock." John laughed bitterly and finished off his juice. "Greg has dozens of cold cases. If you need something to analyze so badly go give him a call. He will be thrilled."  
      "I don't show concern often, John. Do not take this as a joke." He breathed, trying to keep from throwing his arms around the man. If he just told John how much he loved him maybe - "I'll make tea."   
      "Sherlock." As he passed the chair John caught his arm in a still weak grip. "It's not your fault."  
     "I- need you John." The words dropped from his mouth with all the grace of a landslide. "No one else will tolerate me. Please eat properly from now on."   
     John retracted his fingers and sighed. "Fine."   
     The affirmation was not at all enthusiastic but he accepted it nonetheless. "You're not sick? Physically?"   
      "I'm just mind-fucked. Scouts bloody honor."   
      "I'm serious, John."  
      The older man snickered softly. "You would know if I were lying."   
     He wanted to kiss those smirking lips. Even when John was being a sarcastic twat he managed to look adorable. "If you're feeling better, order dinner." He commanded.   
     "Thai?"  
     "Whatever you want, John."   
     "What I want? Sure you're not sick yourself?"   
     He ignored the jibe and put the kettle on, staring  down at it as if it were the root of all his troubles.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to put the tabs back in. As you can probably tell.

     They had a case or, rather, Sherlock did. John was  simply floating about the flat while the detective stared out the window playing his violin. It'd been a week since Lestrade had called them in and Sherlock still hadn't found the answer they needed. John felt a black mood coming and was careful to avoid his friend while he worked out his thoughts. He didn't mind the lack of attention, in fact he welcomed it. This was normal. This was good.  
      It gave him time to get his act together. Recently he'd lost his composure. Sherlock had become suspicious. Now that he was distracted John could build a better facade. He'd been forcing himself to eat though his appetite was still absent and he'd kept up on his daily routines through sheer force of will. Because whereas he was totally unmotivated to do more than lie about, he most certainly did not want to give away his secret. He did not want to lose Sherlock to it. That was his only drive and it seemed to be working.  
       His limp still came and went and his nightmares had increased in vehemence. He'd begun to lock his bedroom door at night and had placed all breakable a in a box beneath the bed just in case. Sherlock hadn't noticed, or hadn't said so at least. It was nearly business as usual now on Baker's Street and the semblance of normalcy almost made John feel better. He'd even gone out drinking with Greg the night before and had truly enjoyed himself.   
      Just a few more days of faking and he'd be back to what he was before Sherlock had come home. Back to that happy, fake man who still smiled and still laughed. The man who wasn't in love with a machine nor ever had been. It sounded pathetic if he said it aloud so he'd quit therapy and that was fine with him. Even if his blog sat silent, even if his brain slowly melted out through his ears from the effort, fake was fine so long as fake meant keeping Sherlock.

***

      The music soothed him, lulled his delinquent emotions into a deep sleep. John moved behind him but he went on playing. The smell of breakfast wafted into his nostrils and John set a plate of toast and eggs on the desk nearby. He went on playing. He was very close to solving Lestrade's case. The answer was there, just behind the next note. He played it with a grin and then stopped abruptly, startling John who had just sat down in his chair with his tea with his sudden spin.   
      "Text Lestrade." He demanded. "Tell him it was the niece."   
      John looked up at him from his cup. "She's only twelve."  
      He laughed. "That's the fun!"   
      "Yes, a child murderer. Yippee." The doctor sighed, reaching for his phone. "He'll need to know how."   
      "Yes, yes." Waving his hands dismissively he quickly rambled off the method and then sat down in his chair triumphantly. "You've done your hair, John." He noticed brightly.  
      "Got it cut three days ago." His companion muttered, still trying to text all the information to Greg. "Eat your breakfast."   
       "Have you eaten yours?"   
       "Yes."   
       Satisfied, Sherlock nibbled absently on his toast, basking in the glory of a job done. He would have considered it well done, had he solved it right away, but his mood was decent nevertheless. "Any more nightmares John?"  
      "A few." The man replied mechanically, as if he'd practiced what he was going to say already. He he was likely hoping to avoid suspicion by giving half-truths.   
      "You didn't go to therapy yesterday. Wasn't it on Tuesdays? What's today?" He knew what day it was, he simply wanted to sound as if he were clueless. It was a believable notion since he'd been in near-trance since Monday evening. In any case, he knew John hadn't gone.   
      "It's Saturday Sherlock." John sighed. "What were you playing earlier? Sounded new."   
He raised his brows. He hadn't thought John would notice. "It is. Did you like it?"   
John traded his tea for the paper. "Uh, yeah. It was good- a bit sad though."   
"I titled it Animus."   
"You wrote it?"  
"Mmh." He confirmed around a mouthful of toast. I wrote it for you John, was what he wanted to say, but fortunately after a few days in his own world he'd been able to recover his sociopathic guise. "Think I'll go to bed."  
John just nodded and turned his attention to his paper. "Goodnight then."   
"Afternoon, John." He corrected needlessly, retreating to his room.


	6. Chapter 6

    His cellphone had been going off for the last twenty minutes and had it not been in the kitchen he'd have dashed it against the nightstand. "John." He called for the tenth time. "My phone, John."   
      What bloody time was it anyway? He felt groggy. He didn't like it. He must have slept too long. "John! My phone! John?"  
      The phone quieted. He rolled onto his back and glared at the ceiling. "What time is it?" He inquired, listening for his flatmate's footsteps.  "John?"   
      It became clear that he was alone. With a sigh, he rose from his mattress like Frankenstein's monster and lurched toward his door. Shortly thereafter he discovered the flat was empty and that it was nearly midnight. He'd been asleep for nearly twelve hours.   
      And just where the bloody hell was John? His bedroom was empty. His teacup was washed and dried. Shoes gone. Coat gone. Pulling his robe around him he snatched his phone from the kitchen table.   
13 missed calls from Lestrade and a slew of voicemails.   
He couldn't be bothered with a case right now. John was missing. Ignoring the inspector's neediness, he sent John a text.  
'Where are you- SH'  
A moment later the response came in a jumble of ignorance. 'Deduce my lick one if ur French girls Sherl. ~ jw'   
'Are you drunk John? -SH'   
'Nope.'   
'Where are you? -SH'   
'Why'd u make me watch?''  
'John, are you with Lestrade? -SH'   
'Jawn. Jawn. Jawn. Jawn.'  
'I'm coming to get you. Tell me where you are. -SH.' Exasperated, he exchanged his robe for his coat and scarf.   
'3 hints.'  
Bloody hell. He gave up and simply called, already halfway down the stairs. "Where are you?" He growled when John answered.  
"Keep your eyes fixed on me."  
     "Oh god, John."   
     "S'what you bloody said Sh'lock.'   
     "Yes I know. Are you on the roof?'  
     "Like I ever looked at anything else."  
      "ARE YOU ON THE ROOF?' He hailed a cab wildly.   
      "I don't know how I got here."   
      He heard a sharp intake of breath and then a- a strangled sob? "John?"   
      "I was with Greg. And the lights at the bar- they were flashing and I- I don't I just- it went black and now- here I am and I-"   
      "It's okay John."   
       "I'll just go-"  
       "No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move."  
       "Bloody hell." John gasped.   
       "I'm coming to get you. Stay there." Wind. Smothered cries. "John? Do. Not. Move."  
       "I don't want to be this way."  
       "Please stay where you are." He snapped, getting into the cab and instructing the driver with no civility whatsoever. "Are you still there John?"  
       "Things can't go back now." The man breathed shakily. "I'm sorry."  
        "John?"   
        The call ended.

The next seven minutes were the longest and most brutal torture he'd endured. No fist had stung as hard, no whip had been as merciless. All he could see in his mind was John dead on the pavement, bleeding and lifeless, bones broken, eyes empty. Finally he realized just what he'd done to his friend. Why'd you make me watch? The man's slurred speech ran again and again in his pristine mind. God, that had been cruel. He'd known it had been, he'd thought it a necessary evil. But now he felt the wrongness of it, felt the guilt like a bullet to the chest.   
John had better be alive or he would lose his mind. He'd become everything Mycroft had so desperately striven to keep him from. There'd be no saving mankind from him if he ever lost his heart.   
The cab stopped. He asked it to wait with a shaking voice. His knees quaked as he stepped out onto the street. His eyes went first the concrete before him and then to the ledge above. Both were empty. "John!?" He shouted.   
And then he spotted him. There, sitting against the building covered in shadows, was the doctor. Instantly he recognized the spot. The place where once he'd lain playing dead as his best friend panicked and wept nearby. Now here they were again. "John?" But everything was different now.  
He squatted down before him. John appeared to have passed out. To be sure he took his pulse and checked for injuries. "Can you walk, John?" He whispered as the man's eyes fluttered open at the contact. "I've come to take you home."  
      "Sorry."   
      Sorry? He was sorry? "Dammit John Watson." He hissed, pulling his friend into his arms. Tea couldn't fix this. Just tea wasn't good enough now. He was going to lose John either way it seemed. However, having him walk away on his own was much better than having him carted off in a hearse.  
       "Sh'lock?"   
       His arms tightened and he buried the bridge of his nose into the other man's collar. John always smelled so good. "I'm the one who is sorry, John."   
       "Caught the kitchen n'fire again?" The older man murmured, "s'okay."   
       "No, John, I'm sorry for this." He sighed, pulling away. "For doing this to you."   
       John slumped forward, half-asleep and smirking. "Why d'you do that?"   
      "What?"  
      "John, John, John." He chuckled, head lulling.  
Obviously there was no point in further speaking. Witt a huff he pulled John to his feet and supported him when his legs rebelled. The cabby made mention of a fee for being sick on the upholstery but Sherlock quickly dismissed him with a wave and a scowl.  
John's head fell onto his shoulder and he simply sat his own atop it.


	7. Chapter 7

      Sherlock helped John up the stairs. The man seemed to have caught his second wind and was now rambling on about his brain feeling warm and fuzzy like a sock. "Not jus' a regular sock-" he babbled, "Like those aloe socks we bought Hudders for Christmas."   
He snorted. "That's nice, John."   
     "Yeah." John agreed, "I get why Harry does this."   
      Sherlock scowled. "You've not been drinking like this often, have you? While I was away?"  
      John shook his hands off as they reached the flat and stumbled aimlessly around the living room. "You mean while you were dead?"   
      Sherlock sighed and hung his coat on the hook. "Yes, John."   
      "John, John, John." The doctor sang, "Sh'lock, Sh'lock, Sheeerlock."   
      "John."   
      John laughed. "Yeeeaaas?"   
      "Maybe you should sit down."   
      The older man looked at his chair and then turned his attention back to Sherlock. He wagged a finger and grinned. "You hugged me."   
      "I did." Sherlock confirmed. "You were upset. Embracing helps to sync heartbeats. I was attempting to calm you down using my slower pulse."   
      "Very logical." John stated, heading for the kitchen where he pulled a beer from the fridge.   
       He intervened, moving to take the drink from his friend. "You think that's a good idea, John?"  
       John swayed and then leaned against the counter. "Do you like the sound of my name, Sherlock?" He asked in a way that had                    Sherlock taking a cautionary step back. Those sultry gray eyes were causing a stirring in him he hadn't been prepared for. Did John know he was giving him such a look?   
       "I just-" He did like the sound of it. He loved the simplicity of it, the fact that something so small could hold so much meaning. It reassured him in a way he cherished. But that was an answer he couldn't give.   
      "It's bloody hot in here." John grumbled, pushing past him and removing his jumper in a very graceful manner. His button up was next and soon John was left in his vest and trousers. It was bizarre behavior for the doctor whom he had never seen in less than his robe and socks before now.   
      Curiosity got the better of him.  As the doctor sank into his chair he stalked across the room to do the same. His eyes immediately found the scar peeping out from beneath the arm of John's black vest. He hadn't seen it before. He was always careful to keep it hidden.   
      He was no stranger to scars. After his three years on the run he had quite a few of his own. Still, because it was on John, the mark was mesmerizing. He wanted to inspect it, to deduce the living hell out of it. That was odd. Even for him. With a sigh he averted his eyes and John shifted in his seat.  
      "You alright John?" He questioned as the man slumped over the arm of the chair and rubbed at his face.  
"Spinning."  
        "Oh, hang your head over the side of the arm." He suggested, "Your Vestibulo Ocular Reflex is confused because-" John hung his head upside down as instructed and Sherlock laughed. He couldn't help it. The sight was just too ridiculous. "Yes, like that." He snorted, "Better?"  
          After a few seconds John took a long breath and sighed his name."Sherlock?"   
          "Yes, John?"   
          "I'm losing my mind."  
          "It's nothing we can't fix with a good case and bit of blogging."   
          "I missed you." He whispered, shifting again so that his head now rested on the arm rather than hanging over it. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. "Kept thinking I could have stopped you jumping."   
           "What happened while I was away?" He inquired softly, his stomach sinking to his shoes.   
           "Nothing." His friend mumbled sleepily. "Everythin' was dull...dreadful."  
            "That's a bit melodramatic, John." John murmured something incoherent and Sherlock sighed. "Let's get you to bed."  
          "Leave me here." John groaned as he hefted him to his feet.   
         "Nonsense John, no man left behind." He stated, rather enjoying the excuse to be in close proximity of the other man. He blamed his indiscretion on whimsy and questioned it no further.   John wouldn't remember and if he did he couldn't confirm any ulterior motives. Hell, he'd already crossed the line why not keep pushing?   
            "What're ya doin'?"   
            John tried to stand without aid as they made their way toward Sherlock's bedroom. "It's closer to the toilet."  
"Where'll you sleep?"  
"I've only just woke up." He answered, pushing his bedroom door open and dumping John on his bed. "Shoes, John."  
             John bent to undo his laces and hit his head on the nightstand. "Bullocks."  
           "For god's sake." Sherlock muttered, though he secretly found it beyond adorable. "Here."  
           The doctor put his head in his hands. "I'm losing my mind."   
          "Don't start that again." Sherlock sighed, "Do you want me to bring the waste basket over in case you're sick?"   
         John made a small grunting noise but offered him no real reply. He got the basket anyway and then hovered for a moment memorizing the scene before him. The sight of John laying cattywampus across his bed would be a memory he'd revisit time and again. "Goodnight John."   
        "Sherlock."   
        He paused, his hand on the light switch and his foot out the door. "Go to sleep."   
        "Wait."   
        Sighing, he went back to the bed. "Do you need help to the bathroom?"  
        John lurched from the bed and staggered toward him. Sherlock was caught by surprise as the shorter man took hold of his shoulders and pushed him backwards until he was against the wall. "John, what the hell are you doing?"   
        The doctor shook his head, tugged the collar of his shirt roughly until their lips met and whispered against his teeth:   
        "Losing my mind."


	8. Chapter 8

John couldn't even feel his lips as he pressed them to his flatmate's. In fact he couldn't feel his face at all. Sherlock blushed the deepest red he'd ever seen. "J-John?" He gasped into his open mouth. "I-I-"   
They stood there a moment entrapped in the awkwardness. Sherlock didn't seem to know how to react and John himself was so wasted he wasn't sure if this was even reality. This could just be a very lucid dream. It wouldn't have been his first. Their hearts pounded against each other's chest as they stood there sharing breath, waiting for the other to move.   
      John's legs began to feel weak suddenly and the room blurred. His stomach rebelled and he went for the bathroom, hitting his bad shoulder on the door frame as he went. The pain didn't dissuade the nausea and he made it just in time to spew his dinner and his every ounce of his pride into the pristine porcelain bowl.   
       Not a dream. He thought frantically as he was sick. I kissed Sherlock.   
       He started to sweat and his body trembled. He should have let Greg cut him off. God, he should have stayed home and watched crap Telly. And good bloody fuck he definitely shouldn't have eaten those hot wings.   
        Sherlock's footfalls sounded suddenly. He could hear the creak in the hall as the man came his way. Clinging to the toilet he tried to use his foot to close the door but it was too late.   
       "Here." The detective whispered, setting a glass of water on the floor beside him and fetching a rag from the cabinet.   
       He would have thanked him had he not been too busy dry-heaving. A cool cloth was draped across the back of his neck and suddenly Sherlock was on the floor beside him rubbing his back in small, soothing circles. "John-" the man began, but he paused his gagging in order to interrupt.  
      "Delete it." He whispered, looking over his shoulder at his friend. "Delete it, Sherlock. This whole night, please."  
       "Alright." The hand instantly left his back and Sherlock rose. "Goodnight John."   
       The bathroom door closed behind him as he left, leaving John feeling a different sort of sick.


	9. Chapter 9

  
         John woke up on the floor of the bathroom and groaned. His bad shoulder ached and his head throbbed. He spilt the water Sherlock had brought him as he sat up and cursed as his socks were soaked. At first, as he rose gingerly, the night before was fuzzy and chaotic. He remembered going out with Greg as her rinsed his face and recalled the guy full of buffalo chicken he'd consumed when he reached for his toothbrush.  
        As he brushed and spat he remembered the woman who'd led him into the dance floor and how Molly had laughed at him as he went limping and tipsy. Greg had given a thumbs up. Then the music had gotten loud and choppy and the flashers had come on- he saw the look on the woman's face, saw her mouth moving to shout something at him and then it was dark.  
       Bile rose in his throat but he fought it valiantly, distracting himself from his hangover by starting the shower. He warm water helped his hurting shoulder and he gently massaged the scar. He was shampooing his hair when an image of Sherlock pressed against the bedroom wall came back to him. The detective was blushing, his soft lips parted. The image sent heat pooling in his groin. Surely it'd just been another dream. He'd never have the courage to do something like that for real.  
       Fictional or non the thought made him hard. "Damn." He grumbled, stroking himself as the image turned into a livid fantasy. He imagined his friend's lithe figure beneath him, his delicate hands tied to the headboard with that posh scarf he so loved. "Ah, Sherlock-" he huffed and gasped as the water ran over him like hot fingertips down his back, across every bit of tender flesh. He could practically hear that beautiful voice calling his name, begging.  He came hard and rested his head on the shower wall as his cock pulsed and his legs quivered.  
        Eyes closed tightly he pulled in lungful a of moist air and rinsed his soiled hand beneath the steaming spray. Slowly, he straightened up and would have begun the rest of his hygiene ritual had a near-strangled voice not stuttered his name.  
       "J-John?" Sherlock was standing just inside the door, gawking and flushed to his ears. "I-uh-"  
       "What the bloody hell are you doing!" He bellowed, mortified. The smoked glass surely had not hidden what he'd just been doing.  
       "Well you've been in here all damn day." The detective defended, squirming uncomfortably. "I shouted but you- were occupied."  
       "Christ, just get out!"  
       "Well, actually John- I-"  
       "Out!"  
       "It seems I'm rather aroused. And I thought since- well last night you kissed me so..."  
       He slid the shower door open. "I did what?"  
       Sherlock didn't even bother to avert his eyes. "You told me to delete it John, and I tried but- I couldn't."  
       John grabbed for his towel as memories came thundering back at a pace that matched his heartbeat. "I was drunk. It didn't mean anything."  
       "No. I think it did John." Sherlock snapped, "I know that what I did hurt you. I know that I'm the reason for all your nightmares and your self-destructive behavior."  
       "Get out, Sherlock. Now."  
       "You were in the hospital twice while I was away." The detective went on, suddenly angry. "You were on bloody suicide watch!"  
       John felt attacked. Here he was laid bare, physically and emotionally. The space was too small, the air was too thick. Stepping out from the shower he wrapped the towel around his waist and made for the door. Sherlock grabbed him and pressed him against the sink. John hissed as his sore shoulder protested the brute force used against it. "Dammit Sherlock, bugger off!"  
       "I'm tired of tea, John." The taller man breathed, "I stood on that rooftop looking down at you and the thought of hitting the pavement didn't matter. The broken bones, the crack in my skull, none of it hurt worse than hearing your voice tremble as you called my name."  
       "Stop it." He couldn't handle this. Having Sherlock this close, having him speak softly to him- it was everything he had wanted and yet he felt filthy.  
       "If I'd have known then that you loved me John, I would have found another way. Even now I'm sure there had to have been one, even if it still to this day eludes me."  
       "I don't want to do this." He hissed, pushing Sherlock off of him. "It's- I can't."  
       "I'm sorry I didn't see sooner." Sherlock continued, blocking the door. "I'm sorry for letting you suffer. I didn't think there was any way you'd ever return my feelings. There was no doubt in my mind that I was utterly unlovable."  
        He couldn't do this. Everything that came out of Sherlock's mouth only confounded him more. His mind was reeling, his heart was pounding, and his head was throbbing.

        And then Mrs. Hudson came knocking.


	10. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein I beg forgiveness

Hey guys, Sherlock has thoroughly broken my soul and I doubt I'll be finishing this. 

 

Anyway, here's a link for a fanfiction I've read a thousand times bc it's amazing. 

https://m.fanfiction.net/s/8988314/1/Lucid

 

lucid by doctorg on Fanfiction.net

Forgive me.

And you're welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, so short. I know. I prefer shorter chapters. It is easier to stop and come back.


End file.
